


Hold My Hand

by Therapeutic_Steter



Series: Prompt Fics [24]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blind Stiles, Gen, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Scott is a Bad Friend, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, isaac is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 04:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12719817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Therapeutic_Steter/pseuds/Therapeutic_Steter
Summary: iidiiotiiciintelliigence asked: Sort of a spin off of the blind Stiles fic: "uh stiles, I'm over here. What's up with you lately? It's like you can't see or something." "... You do relive that I'm blind, don't you Scott?" In which the pack don't notice when stiles loses his sight for some reason (genetic or curse so it isn't obvious) and Peter was the only one to help him through it





	Hold My Hand

Stiles groaned, hanging limply in the chains as the hunter punched his side again. Stiles was sure he felt something crack that time, but his entire body was in so much pain that one more agonizing thrum wasn't going change much. His head was where the real damage was. He felt like the hunters had slung him around like a sack of potatoes. Both his eyes were swollen to almost shut and his temples throbbed.

“Wolf fucker,” the hunter spat in his face, hatred gleaming in his crazed eyes. “You're a traitor to your own damn species.”

Stiles would've been more impressed if he could actually see, but at the moment all he could see were floating lights and moving shadows. God, he was exhausted. He wondered how much longer the pack would take.

“Listen to me when I talk!”

Stiles stopped breathing at the blow; the hunter had backhanded his face. Every inch of his head screamed in agony and Stiles whined wordlessly. His hands shook uselessly as he tried to block his face but the hunter only laughed. He reached out, grabbing Stiles’ ear and pressing the side of his face against the wall behind him. He grinded his face against the rough stone with his hand, laughing obnoxiously. Stiles saw stars.

He definitely had a concussion, he thought as the hunter finally bored of torturing him and walked over to where his buddies were. There was a good chance he had some cracked ribs, maybe broken, who knew? The pain in his chest with every inhale certainly meant something bad. His eyes were so swollen he couldn't even blink, dryness and pain making tears stream down his face. He wanted to curse the bastards, but his mouth felt wrong, numb and heavy. He wondered if they'd drugged him and, if so, what they'd used. He wondered how much longer he would last, if the pack would arrive only to find his dead body.

He shuddered, tears welling up again. It didn't help his already blurry vision. He hated this. He wanted to go home.

“Quit your whining!” a hunter yelled and Stiles flinched, immediately regretting the move when sparks of agony burst along his ribs. The hunters chuckled amongst themselves and Stiles hoped they all burned.

…

Stiles wasn't sure how long he'd been here, but he's say at least four days. Four days of mindless beatings, unpredictable behaviors, yelling, pain. Where the fuck was the pack? How long did it take to realize he was gone? To find him?

Stiles shook when a bucket of cold water was thrown over him, shivering uncontrollably. His teeth chattering made the pain in his head so much worse but he couldn't control it.

“Filthy bitch,” the hunter spat. Stiles tried to lick the droplets of water still clinging to his lips, almost crying as the few drops were not nearly enough to quench his thirst.

“Rodney,” a man called from up the stairs. The hunter that had thrown the water on him looked up. Stiles still couldn't see clearly; he couldn't tell you one minute detail about him or any of the other hunters. They were all moving shadows of pain with floating bursts of light dancing between them.

The hunter Rodney walked away, leaving Stiles alone to the darkness.

Stiles cried.

…

A howl woke Stiles up. He jerked within his binds before groaning weakly as the movement jarred his wounds. The howl turned into a growl, sounds of a fight erupting from upstairs. Stiles winced with every gunshot, praying silently that his wolves would win. Because it could be no one else. It _had_ to be his wolves.

Soon, the sounds shut off and Stiles was left in the silence. The basement door crept open and Stiles looked toward the sound, unable to make out anything other than the light.

“Scott?” He called out, tongue heavy and voice scratchy.

“Stiles?” A voice called out, familiar though it wasn't Scott.

“Peter,” Stiles gasped, tears of relief flowing.

The man rushed to his side, carefully brushing his fingers down the side of his face. Stiles flinched, but then melted in relief as the pain instantly drained from him.

“Thank you,” Stiles breathed, and Peter reached up to unchain him, easing his arms out of the binds and messaging them gently to get the blood flow back.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” Peter said, and he actually sounded concerned.

“Yeah, probably,” Stiles agreed. His head felt light as blood starting flowing to his limbs once more and he collapsed into Peter’s arms, groaning. “I think…I’m going to pass out now,” he managed to say, before falling into the darkness.

…

Stiles woke to the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

“Stiles,” his dad said as soon as his eyes fluttered open, gentle hands brushing back his hair. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles blinked, just able to make out a shadow leaning over him. “Dad?” he asked, hand shaking as he reached up to try and touch the man. John took Stiles’ hand when his strength almost gave out on him. “Dad, I can’t…I can’t see,” Stiles said, and the beeping got louder. “Why can’t I see?” he cried, scared. The shadows were converging upon him now and the shadows always brought pain. He yelled when hands pushed him down, lights swimming around and shadows talking without faces. “Daddy!” he screamed, terrified, before a sharp prick nicked his neck and he was put under again.

…

Rhegmatogenous retinal detachment. That’s what Stiles had. Basically, it came down to extreme trauma to the eye causing a tear in Stiles’ retina which allowed fluid to get behind it. Then it separated the retina from the retinal pigment epitheliam, which is what provided the retina with nourishment and oxygen. Because of the length of time it took Stiles to get to the hospital—turned out, it had taken ten days for Peter to find him; Stiles didn’t ask why Scott or anyone else from the Pack hadn’t visited and didn’t know if he wanted to—his macula had been severely damaged as well. The doctor said he could operate, but that the likelihood of recovering his full vision was slim to none and that he wouldn’t recommend the type of major surgery involved when the prospect was so thin. So Stiles was left to a world of shadows and light.

Stiles sat in silence in the hospital bed long after the doctor left. John was at his side, biting his lip in concern. Peter knocked lightly on the door before slipping in.

“Peter,” John greeted, more so to let Stiles know who had entered. Stiles tilted his head in the man’s direction but didn’t speak. Peter took the chair on Stiles’ opposite side, leaning forward and crossing his fingers in thought. “I’m assuming you listened to all of that?” John asked, looking unsurprised when Peter nodded.

“Why did it take so long?” Stiles finally asked the question that had been worrying him from the very start. Peter sighed and John’s hand squeezed Stiles’ supportively.

“It took us almost three days for us to find out who had taken you. Another day to find their base, though that wasn’t where they were keeping you. Scott wanted to make a deal to figure out where you were, but the hunters kept stringing him along. I…may have threatened to kill him to get the Alpha power so I could save you and he kicked me out of the pack meeting after that.” Peter hung his head, roughly running his fingers through his hair uncharacteristically. "I went to John with what we had on the hunters—Scotty hadn’t wanted to involve humans, but honestly, I was beyond caring—and your dad led a… _special_ team on a search and rescue.”

Stiles clutched at his dad’s hand, breathing shakily through his nose. “I see,” was all he said, processing. He reached out towards Peter’s shadow and the man offered his hand, letting Stiles hold his hand securely. “Thank you,” he said, looking in Peter’s direction and hating that he couldn’t meet the man’s eyes. He’d never be able to again. He fought back a sniffle, closing his eyes and trying to control the emotions welling up within him. “Thank you for finding me.”

“Always,” Peter vowed, chastely brushing his lips against the back of Stiles’ hand.

“I also might have decked Scott when he tried to visit you the first night you were here,” John spoke up. “In case you were wondering why he or anyone else hadn’t come.”

Stiles laughed without humor, shoulders shaking as he held back sobs. He nodded deliriously. “Yeah, I was wondering.” He exhaled slowly, looking down and seeing nothing. “This…is going to take a lot of time to get used to.”

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” Peter said, thumb brushing back and forth over the skin of Stiles’ hand.

“He’s right, kiddo,” John said, cupping the back of Stiles’ neck and pulling him into a hug. “You take your time, but I have absolute faith that you can overcome this.”

Stiles clutched at his dad’s shirt, crying into his shoulder. He never let go of Peter’s hand. Peter never made him.

…

“I can’t believe you’re going to hang out with him,” Peter said, standing at the stove and tossing the stir-fry.

“We’ve been friends since kindergarten, Peter. Scott’s fucked up, but I’ve fucked up too. He apologized and we’re taking it slow. I wouldn’t trust my life in his hands, but that’s what I’ve got you for, Creeperwolf.”

“You’ve never fucked up anywhere near how Scott has,” Peter muttered under his breath before moving the pan off the stove and spooning the stir-fry onto three beds of rice on three plates. He dutifully ignored how Stiles’ blatant admittance of trust in him made something in his chest flutter, warm with emotion.

“Don’t forget dad gets wheat grain rice,” Stiles called out.

“I know, Stiles,” Peter said, rolling his eyes fondly as he covered the plate intended for the Sheriff and then grabbed both Stiles and his own plate over to the table.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, flushing adorably. The boy still got a bit flustered whenever someone helped him with things he used to be able to do himself, not that Peter blamed him. He was glad they’d even managed to get to this point and that Stiles was comfortable enough with letting him do things like cooking for him. In many ways, Stiles could still take care of himself, but being near a burning stove was not one of them that he or the Sheriff wanted the boy to try.

“Don’t know how dad and I ever managed without you,” Stiles said, grinning cheekily around a mouthful of food. He moaned exaggeratedly at the taste and Peter cuffed the back of his head familiarly.

“Brat,” he accused affectionately.

Stiles blew him a messy kiss, food and all, and Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust, shoving a napkin into his face.

“Disgusting,” he grumbled, and Stiles laughed. Peter treasured the sound.

…

John dropped Stiles off at Scott’s with no small amount of trepidation. He’d not been sold on Stiles’ attempts to mollify him to the idea of him giving the other boy another chance and he wasn’t too keen in letting Stiles out of his sight so soon. He trusted Peter to keep Stiles safe, but beyond that, he wasn’t trusting any of the so-called Beacon Hills’ Pack. Who knows how much faster they would’ve found Stiles had Scott not drug his feet trying to play perfect hero and instead let someone qualified to take care of those issues deal with it?

He hoped his son knew what he was doing, but Stiles had always been a little too forgiving when it came to Scott McCall.

Stiles knocked on the McCall’s door, something he hadn’t done in years. He heard the sounds of someone bounding down the stairs before the door opened and Stiles could just make out Scott’s shadow.

“Hey, dude!” Scott welcomed him, pulling him in for a hug. Stiles winced when Scott’s rough handling flared up some of his wounds, but he wrote it off as relief and returned the embrace. Scott might not be the smartest, but he was definitely genuine with his good intentions. “It’s good to see you! I’m glad you’re out and about!” he said, pulling away and holding Stiles at arm’s length. Probably smiling that puppy-dog grin of his if Stiles had any guess, so Stiles smiled back.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, letting Scott drag him further into the house. Stiles stumbled as the hard flooring of the foyer turned into the carpet of the living room, frowning in concentration as he tried to visualize the McCall household in his mind’s eye.

“Hey, Stiles.”

Stiles stiffened at the new voice, smile turning brittle. “Isaac,” he said, looking in the direction of the voice but unsure of where he was. “Hey.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Isaac said, and his voice was more tentative than usual. He was walking closer and Stiles felt a hesitant hand brushing down his arm. He reached out, grasping Isaac’s wrist and smiling in what he hoped was a comforting way.

“Thanks,” he said, squeezing once. He may have been disappointed that Scott had invited the other beta over as well, but Isaac did sound sincere in his concern. Not that Stiles could study his face to be sure, but either way the beta didn’t pull away from him, which was new.

Scott tugged him further into the living room and Stiles tripped into the couch. He sat gingerly, still a bit unsure without his sight but he’d managed okay around Peter at the house and surely he could manage being over at Scott’s. He’d been coming over here since he was five.

“So how’ve you been?” Scott asked, and his voice came from around the back of the couch. Stiles turned, trying to face the right direction as he spoke.

“Okay. My ribs are still healing, but doc says those might take a while,” he said.

“Uh, Stiles. I’m over here,” Scott said, and Stiles flushed embarrassedly, turning in the other direction.

“Right,” Stiles said through gritted teeth. Rapidly he was starting to regret this decision. Maybe he wasn’t as ready to leave the house without Peter or his dad as he’d thought.

“But yeah, your dad said you were healing up okay. I guess everything worked out then,” Scott said. Stiles could hear his optimism and sunshine smile and Stiles suddenly had a flash of rage at his naïvetés.

“Excuse me?” Stiles said, clenching his fists and trying to keep himself calm.

“Dude, what’s up with you?” Scott said, and now he was standing in front of Stiles. “It’s like you can’t see or something.”

“…You do realized that I’m blind, don’t you, Scott?”

The room was instantly silent. Stiles glared at the space in front of him, the last place Scott’s voice had come from, and he stood. “You know what, I think I should be leaving. This was a mistake.”

“What? No, come on! Stiles!” Scott said, grabbing Stiles’ arm. “What do you mean you’re blind?”

“I mean I’m blind, Scott! What do you think that means?” Stiles yelled, snatching his arm away. “Because you waited so long trying to play hero, the repeated trauma to my head was too much for the doctors to fix. I’m lucky Peter and my dad got to me when they did, otherwise who knows what would’ve happened.”

“What?!” Scott yelled. “No, no, dude, that’s not—Peter was the one who kept holding us up! He kept trying to suggest we kill the hunters! They were just human!”

“ _They beat me until my ribs were broken and I couldn’t see!_ ” Stiles screamed. “I have never been happier for Peter to suggest killing someone!” Stiles sneered in disgust, turning to leave. This was a horrible horrible mistake. He stumbled into a lamp and cursed, trying to right it back onto the table and storming off only to hip-check a corner.

“ _God-dammit!_ ” He yelled, tears welling up despite himself.

“Here,” Isaac said quietly, grabbing his hand and gently leading him to the door.

“Stiles!” Scott called.

“Shut the hell up, Scott!” Isaac yelled back, slamming the front door behind them before walking with Stiles to the end of the driveway.

“Do you want me to call your dad?” Isaac asked Stiles lowly.

“Can…can you call Peter?” Stiles asked. “Dad was going into work and I don’t want to call him out.”

“Okay,” Isaac agreed, before Stiles heard him shuffling things around. “Hey, Peter? It’s Isaac. Can you come pick Stiles up at Scott’s?” There was a pause. “It…didn’t go well,” Isaac said. “I’ll let Stiles tell you the details.” He made a humming sound before hanging up. “He’s on his way,” Isaac assured him. “Do you want me to leave or stay?”

“Stay, please,” Stiles said, hating how his voice cracked. He roughly wiped at his face. “God, this is ridiculous. I’m almost eighteen; I shouldn’t need someone to make calls for me or hold my hand.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Isaac said. “That was really shitty what Scott did. We were all to the point where we were ready to kill those fuckers if they didn’t tell us where you were, but Scott wanted to try to find you without killing anyone. I’m…I’m so sorry, Stiles, that none of us—that _I_ —didn’t try harder to convince him or find you myself.”

Stiles offered him a wobbly smile, squeezing his hand, but couldn’t manage words. When the tears broke, Isaac pulled him in for a hug, letting Stiles hide his face into the taller boy’s shoulder.

“Peter’s driving down the street,” Isaac told him just before Stiles could make out the sound of his car. Stiles sniffled, pulling away and wiping the wetness away.

“Stiles?” Peter asked, getting out of the car and leaving it running, rushing towards the boy.

“I’m okay,” Stiles promised, reaching for him. Peter enveloped him in a hug and Stiles relaxed into the comfort of the man’s arms.

“You going to be okay?” Isaac asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m going to go chew Scott out then,” Isaac said, and Stiles could picture his vicious smirk.

“Thanks,” Stiles said into Peter’s shoulder, feeling a cold vindictiveness swirling within him.

“Let’s get you home,” Peter said, kissing his temple before walking with him to the car. “Isaac looks positively _wrathful_ ,” Peter murmured for Stiles’ ears alone.

“ _Good_ ,” Stiles said, just as spiteful.

Peter chuckled darkly, not a trace of humor, and moved to get in the driver’s seat. Stiles grabbed his hand over the console, leaning against his arm tiredly, trustingly.

“Take me home.”

“As you wish,” Peter said. Stiles snorted, hitting him lightly for the tease, but never let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Send me a prompt on [tumblr](https://therapeutic-steter.tumblr.com/)!


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